The Confrontation
by October Sky
Summary: Sawyer has a conversation with someone familar at a bar.


The Confrontation

**Summary: **Sawyer has a conversation with someone familiar at a bar. One-shot.

**Author's Note:** I know I should be working on "In the End", but I've been sick, and I don't want to write anything when I don't have much time to write, which I don't. Anyway, I was inspired to write this story by Silver Spider's prequel to Black Halos, which can be found here: Lost belongs to J.J. Abrams and Co. at ABC.

Sawyer sat at the unfamiliar bar, listening to the unfamiliar bustle of the north. The busy, cold, atmosphere he had been apart of for the past few days had made him homesick for almost the first time.

The bar was simple: a long counter covered in empty glasses, a bar tender who was quiet enough, but would talk if you wanted to, and a set of big screen tvs surrounded by gambling football fans.

"Keep 'em comin'," Sawyer instructed the bar tender, who nodded as he sat down another glass.

A bell tolled. Curious, Sawyer glanced behind him, and watched as a man entered the bar. He didn't even notice there was a bell earlier. Sawyer expected the man to go join the drunk bunch by the tv, but instead he crossed over to the bar, kicking aside a chair that was in his way in the process.

"Want anything?" The bartender asked him.

"Ain't stayin'," the man replied.

In Sawyer's opinion, he already seemed drunk enough. The man looked familiar, though he couldn't recall ever seeing him before. To his surprised, the stool next to him was pulled out, and the man swung his leg over, banging his knee against the bar in the process. He didn't flinch. Sawyer finished the glass he had been working on, and the bar tender sat down another, though through his now dazed sight, Sawyer noticed he raised an eyebrow at him.

He expected the man beside him to say something, but he never did. The man, who was probably in his thirties, looked like he was in deep thought, as in contemplating what he wanted to say. As if he had waited his whole life for this moment. Sawyer subconsciously tapped his heel against the stool, to a song he had heard on the radio on the way here. He had only listened to half of it, but the song was long. Too long. "Bohemian Rhapsody" was one of those songs where Sawyer could really get into the first few verses, but eventually he became curious as to what was playing on the other stations. He knew the song was good, but for someone else to listen to.

The man beside him still wasn't talking. It was actually becoming quite annoying. Was he just one of those lonely types who was desperate for a friend?

"You from the south too?" Sawyer asked, thinking that maybe the guy was waiting for him to say something first.

"Yeah," the man replied quietly, almost in a mutter.

He actually sounded like maybe he was about to be sick. Nevertheless, the man cleared his throat. Home towns were always the icebreaker.

"You ever heard of a James Ford?" The man asked.

Sawyer didn't reply.

"Didn't think so."

The response was almost whispered.

"Why?" Sawyer asked after a long paused. "You know him?"

"We've met," the man said, just as low and bitter.

Nothing else was offered, and Sawyer wasn't sure what he was supposed to say. When Sawyer continued to say nothing, the man swung his leg back around, his feet landing firmly on the ground.

"Get this guy a cab," he said, handing the bar tender some money.

The man reached out with his hand, and assumed he was supposed to take it, Sawyer returned the hand shake.

"The name's James Ford," the man said, "have a nice night, Mr. Sawyer."

He sat something down on the bar in front of Sawyer, and when he looked down he saw that it was a letter. Suddenly he remembered where he heard the name before. James Ford. Of course. But before Sawyer could say anything, James Ford was already out the door and on the street. Turning back to the bar, the first affects of the alcohol hitting him. He made sure the bar tender wasn't looking before taking the envelope, which was worn, as though it had seen as much of a past as anyone, and opened it. The writing was hard to make out at first, but Sawyer convinced himself that this was only because he didn't want to read the letter, and after the first few lines, he regretted even opening it. He was beginning to regret everything. The full realization of who James Ford was hit him, and a part of his past that he had long forgotten about- and had hoped to never remember- came back to haunt him as he read the greeting:

_Dear Mr. Sawyer.._


End file.
